


Making a Fire for Warmth

by mistyzeo



Series: Holiday Ficlets 2010 [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-03
Updated: 2011-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ficlet for <a href="http://drvsilla.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://drvsilla.livejournal.com/"><b>drvsilla</b></a>!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making a Fire for Warmth

The cabin is freezing when they reach it, exactly like the air outside and the snow falling around them in tiny, almost invisible flakes. Dean thinks he learned somewhere that snow that small will fall for ages, not like the big wet flakes that signal the end of a snowstorm, and it means that the car will be buried up to her headlights if they're lucky, and roof if they're not. Sam's shivering non-stop and obviously trying to hide it, his teeth chattering every so often, and Dean bets his hands are nearly frozen around the handle of the weapons bag.

They're hunting the ghost of a woman who died in a snowstorm uncomfortably like this one, in a cabin uncomfortably similar to the one in front of them, but it's the only shelter they've seen since the snow started falling two hours ago, and it's all they're going to get. Dean figures maybe they're lucky, in the end, if they can keep her out of there long enough for them to get warm.

The cabin door opens under duress, and Sam goes tumbling through into the dark interior. It's mid-afternoon but the sky is a dull gunmetal gray, and the light is not awesome. The inside of the cabin isn't much more impressive than the outside: little potbellied stove in the middle, single bed in the corner, little cabinet on the wall, all barely visible. Dean can just make out the shadowy shape of something else non-sinister in the other corner behind the stove, but it's Sam who drops the weapons on the bed and says, "It's a wood pile!" like Christmas suddenly doesn't suck.

Their hands are stiff from the cold and Dean's ache to move them, but they stuff the stove full of wood and start picking up crap—twigs and bits of paper and pieces of cloth—for tinder. Dean's Zippo lights reliably and the twigs smolder hesitantly for a while before catching.

Sam huddles in front of the stove, not even bothering to lay salt lines or give Dean a hand, so Dean kicks him in the ass. Sam yelps and mutters darkly but he helps out, still shivering, until they've got a pile of blankets near the stove, a ring of salt around, and a couple of protection symbols written in chalk by the doors and windows. If Mrs. Pewterschmidt shows up, she'll have to finagle her way inside before she can get to them.

Dean pulls Sam in and drapes the blankets around both of them, squirming them as close to the fire as he can manage without burning their faces. The fire's warmth seeps into him slowly, starting in his cheeks and chest and kneecaps, and easing under his skin, into his bones, until he can flex his fingers and curl his toes in his boots without wincing. Sam's relaxed at his side, with his head on Dean's shoulder and one hand on the shotgun. Dean's picking bits of fluff out from between the planks of wood and throwing them into the open mouth of the stove.

Suddenly, and with an unnecessary amount of shrieking, Mrs. Pewterschmidt makes an appearance, gaunt and transparent and already on fire. Dean glances from her to the scrap of calico he just burned as she howls and clutches at her dress, and then she's gone in a shower of sparks.

Dean blinks away the afterimage to the sound of Sam laughing, and then he grabs him in a chokehold and rubs his scalp with his knuckles. Sam yells and laughs and punches him in the side, and Dean growls, "Say uncle!" Sam subsides and doesn't say uncle, and Dean lets him go but he stays tucked in against Dean's side, smiling.

"That was easy," he says finally, fingers twitching on Dean's knee. Dean can still feel the cold at his back but the stove has warmed up the room and his front is almost roasting. Sam's face is hot to the touch when Dean pushes his hair out of his eyes.

"Don't get used to it," he warns, but he can't help feeling smug anyway.


End file.
